A Serpent Made of Ice
by WinterSunshine
Summary: A boy, Gryffindor; The Chosen One. A girl, Slytherin; The One Who Never Had a Choice... Forced to pick a side, to join ranks with the Death Eaters, Darcie Malfoy must prove herself and her family's allegiance to the Dark Lord after her father is imprisoned in Azkaban. She doesn't know that her mission is impossible. She doesn't know that she will fail. [AU/fem!Draco, eventual DxA]
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

 **.**

 _June 4_ _th_ _1991_

 _._

Malfoy Manor was a towering, ancient and magnificent looking thing—as if from a fairytale. Its walls and foundation were supremely aged, a result of the generations upon generations of Malfoys that had lived here there before these ones, who had walked on these floors, slept in these beds…

Truly, the mansion was nothing if not a palace, with its grand towers, lovingly embraced by the coiling ivy, snake-like, which crept just a little bit higher every year, like a child's growth marks penned on the jamb of a door. Elaborate friezes and gables accentuated the pure nobility of it all. It was no wonder juvenescent Darcie Malfoy always had felt something like a princess.

As far as status went, her family possessed both wealth and a pure-blood family line as far back as it would go—both of which made her mother and father something like nobles in the wizarding world. It was no wonder Darcie's favorite game to play was Queen of the Castle.

"You there!" she called out in her most prodigious-sounding voice as she righted the too-heavy, elaborately-jeweled tiara perched atop her silky blonde head. "Bring me some strawberries from the hold! And a Chocolate Frog!"

She heard Virginia Crabbe, who had been Darcie's best playmate since infancy, sighed plaintively from where she knelt in the dirt at the foot of Darcie's 'throne', which was fashioned from twigs and branches by the use of her father's magic. Virginia dragged her finger through the dusty mulch.

Darcie's impatience grew. "I said—"

"Can't we play something different?" Virginia griped, settling back on her heels.

Indignation flared through Darcie like a spike, heating her through from the roots of her long, pale hair to the tips of her fingernails. If Virginia wouldn't play nicely, Darcie would just send her home and call for Teddy Nott instead.

"If you don't wanna play my way, why don't you just go home?" The words came out of Darcie's mouth both high and shrill. It didn't matter that they played by the same rules, Darcie's rules, whether they were at her house or not. Her father had told her, once, that you only receive the respect you demanded. And Darcie demanded the very same respect from her friends that her mother and father got from their friends.

Before Virginia dared to challenge Darcie's expectations again, a distant voice echoed across the wide clearing to them. Narcissa Malfoy, Darcie's mother, was informing them that Mr. Crabbe had just arrived to take his daughter home.

Reluctantly, despite their recent squabble, the girls abandoned their game of make believe—Darcie hastily buried the ancient family heirloom and most treasured plaything in the bracken beneath her makeshift throne—and the girls broke from the grove and trees they'd been playing in and began to cross back toward Malfoy Manor.

Later, after Virginia had gone home with her father via side-along Apparition, Darcie's mother and father tucked her into bed.

"Did you have a nice time with your friend today, darling?" Narcissa inquired, smoothing Darcie's hair back from her brow and kissing her there.

"Mostly."

Narcissa laughed. "Try to get some sleep now," she suggested, "You'll need the energy for your big day tomorrow."

Darcie's heart leapt in her chest with excitement. "Do you think my letter will come first thing, Mother?" she wondered as Narcissa tucked the sheets more tightly around her daughter and drew back to allow space for Lucius.

"Patience, Darcie," he said as he kissed his daughter on the cheek and then met her gaze.

Darcie stared expectantly at her father, recognizing the expression on his face, the serious emotion in the silvery eyes that matched her own, knowing that tonight, on the eve of her eleventh birthday, her father was going to say something important.

She felt her father's hand come to rest over her own, atop the sheets. "I want you to understand something, Darcie," he said quietly, "I know I've told you this very thing before, but I'm going to tell you again, because you're older now, and I think you'll understand better now: You are a triply special girl, Darcie. First, because you are a witch. Second, because you are a pure-blood, and thirdly, because you are a member of this family, the Malfoys. In that precise order. Do you understand, my dear?"

"Yes, father," she whispered.

"And because you are _so_ special… This gives you a certain obligation, a certain… Responsibility. Especially as you prepare to embark on your first year at Hogwarts. Do you understand that?"

"Yes, father."

"Good girl."

Something unexplainable always happened whenever Darcie heard her father utter those words. As if something very deep within her was attached to a thread, and this thread was pulled by these words, that unnamed something stretching, yearning toward the light.

Darcie's parents left the room and she rolled over in her canopy bed, toward the window. The curtains had been drawn nearly to a close, and through the remaining gap, Darcie could see the full and bright orb of the moon, silver and bright. She let her eyes grow heavy as she gazed upon it, letting it fill her vision, and then turned away, burrowing deeper beneath her brocade, emerald quilt.

.

 **A/N:** Harry Potter fanfiction? Um, yeah, I'm surprised too. For awhile now, I've been toying with, like, a full-on gender bend of the entire series from Harry/Harriet's POV, but then **THIS** idea struck, and I just couldn't let it go. I've been so interested in what things looked like from Draco's side of things, especially from OOTP onwards, but I'm lousy at writing from a boy's perspective. I'm just too flowery and stuff. So I've gender-swapped Draco/Darcie and most of her friends, but no one else. Annnd… This is what's happened. The first few chapters will summarize the first four years, and then we'll go into more detail after that… At least, that's the plan.

And for all of you here for a DD update—it's coming. Slowly, but it's coming.


	2. Chapter 1: Anathema

**Chapter One: Anathema**

 **.**

 _September 1_ _st_ _1991_

 _._

Platform 9 and ¾ had been just what her parents had said it would be, down to the great, smelly crimson steam engine—why couldn't it be _green_?—and was packed with pure-bloods and Mudbloods alike.

Darcie's father had bid her adieu at the edge of the crowd, and then had sent Narcissa forth to help Darcie onto the train. As they'd walked away, Darcie had glanced over her shoulder and seen her father talking to one of his old friends—a man she knew had been a Death Eater before the Dark Lord had been vanquished. However, Darcie's father refused to believe the great dark wizard had truly been defeated, and retained hope that He was somewhere in waiting, biding His time.

Darcie had learned much of her family's secrets over the years, eavesdropping on adult conversation in the sitting room from the balcony above, while she should have been in bed. One thing that had never been kept a secret from her, however, had been the penitent aura her mother and father—and other close friends—had had about them. They had not hidden their disappointment, and discussed with Darcie, rather openly, their regret that the Dark Lord had not succeeded in rising to full power over the wizarding community. However, each time she was made privy to one of these conversations, she had been told, with a greatly-weighted deal of importance, not to share her views with the rest of the community, warning her that her father would find himself in trouble if others outside the close-knit grouping of family and closest friends, were to discover that the Malfoys retained this viewpoint to this day.

Never the matter, however, because the only people Darcie planned on associating with at school were pure-bloods and Slytherins. She was lucky to have grown up alongside many of her parents' friends' children. Already she'd formed a tight-knit kinship with Virginia Crabbe, who had promised to save her a seat on the train. As well as Greta Goyle, who Darcie considered herself second closest with. Their camaraderie, though forced upon them from a young age, had ultimately come to form genuine bonds.

She found both girls waiting for her on the train, in a compartment near the front. As usual, Greta was gorging herself on Chocolate Frogs, while Virginia was simply staring out the window, at the teeming platform beyond. Both girls greeted Darcie with enthusiasm and familiar warmth.

They busied themselves with conversation and contemplation about the coming school year—but didn't dare consider which house they'd be sorted into, all of them confident it would the House of the Serpent—and if they weren't sure, none of them stated so. It was Slytherin or bust in Darcie's opinion, and that of the others' too. Or, at least, it should have been. In the back of her mind, Darcie wondered, feared, what would happen to her if she _wasn't_ sorted into the Slytherin house. She'd been surrounded by varying shades of emerald and jade her entire life. Both her mother and father—and their predecessors dating back as far as one could go down the line—had been Slytherins. If she didn't live up to her family's expectations…

Darcie bit the thought off short. She wouldn't go down that path. To doubt only opened herself up to vulnerability. If there was a chance of the Sorting Hat being swayed, she must be confident in her assumption she would follow in her mother and father's very own footsteps.

Just then, Greta, who had left to use the lavatory, returned, banging the compartment door behind her loudly. Darcie looked up, seeing that her friend's dark eyes were wide with enthrallment.

On the other side of the door, in the narrow hallway, a group of children walked by—Darcie could see their dark silhouettes against the frosted glass window—their indistinct murmuring punctuated with unmistakable novelty.

"Merlin's beard, Greta, what is it?" Darcie demanded as the girl took her seat, practically hyperventilating. She felt a frisson of annoyance, and an odd twist of panic in her stomach, sensing that Greta, in this moment, knew more than she did.

Darcie knew, in all the years she'd admired her mother and envied the power of her father, that one sure indicator of success was knowing the events of the world almost before anyone else did.

"You won't believe it, you won't—you just won't!"

"Believe _what_?"

"Harry Potter!" Greta squeaked. "He's on the train!"

Of course Darcie suspected he'd be attending Hogwarts this year. The whole wizarding community was talking about it; in fact, the Daily Prophet's speculations, accompanied by an old photo of the infant Harry, had made the front page this morning. But now, knowing he was here, there was an immediate response within her. Like a jolt of lightening bursting down her spine, forcing her to attention.

Of course she'd heard everything there was to hear about The Boy Who Lived, the boy who had effortlessly overcome the Dark Lord at just sixteen months old, on Halloween Night, eleven years ago. It was an accomplishment never heard of before in the wizarding world, _especially_ by a mere infant!

Darcie had heard many conjecture, her father most earnestly of them all, that this boy must posses great dark powers of his own to have survived Voldemort's killing curse with no apparent physical or emotional fracture other than a very thin lightening bolt-shaped scar over his left brow.

Many other stories had made their rounds, had even been presented to her father by his fellow companions, but the theory that persisted, in Lucius's mind above all others, was the assumption that Harry Potter could only be an enormously prevailing Dark Wizard himself.

 _"Why else would they have him removed from the community? What other reason is there?"_ Darcie had heard her father wonder many a time. _"Don't you see?"_ she'd heard him hiss fanatically to her mother late at night, as she'd hidden in the shadows, avoiding bedtime once again, _"This could be a very opportune chance for us, Narcissa! Retribution, redemption! A second chance at world domination! Should the Potter boy prove to be another champion, why, the prospects are endless!"_

"Who told you that?" Darcie demanded of Greta now.

"No one in particular—I just heard on my way back from the loo, some kids talking—"

"Which compartment?"

"I don't—I don't know…" Greta admitted, her expression of absorption steadily melting into something ashamed, even embarrassed.

"Well, wouldn't you think that's some pretty vital information?" Darcie snapped, secretly glad that her friend didn't quite know _so_ much.

She stood, sliding the compartment door open and peeking into the corridor.

"You there," she said to a girl heading the other way. "In the plain black robes and the saggy pigtails."

The girl paused and turned, her expression unsure.

"Which compartment is Harry Potter in?"

"H-Harry P-p-Potter? I didn't even know he was…"

But Darcie had already turned her back on the unhelpful girl, and wrenched open the nearest door, seeing a couple of familiar faces among these seats' occupants.

"Her, Darc," one of the boys said, holding up a hand in friendly greeting.

Darcie planted her palms on either edge of the doorframe. "Do you know which compartment Harry Potter's in?"

"Sure," the kid said. "104."

Without so much as a 'thank you', Darcie turned, shutting the door behind her, and headed back to her own compartment. She was filled with a sudden sense of not only excitement, but latent purpose as well. Hopeful she'd be able to write home to her parents later tonight about her newfound, fast friendship with one of the most potential wizards of all time, Darcie checked her hair in the small compact mirror in her bag, and then dragged her friends out into the corridor, heading toward compartment 104.

She did not pause as she approached the door, marked by a small golden placard, steadfastly refusing to acknowledge the twist of anxiety behind her navel. She called on her sense of grace and poise—well, as much grace and poise as an eleven-year-old could possess.

 _You are a witch,_ she reminded herself, _You are a pure-blood, and you are a Malfoy._

With her father's words of importance ringing in her head, she pulled open the door.

She'd seen a photo of The Boy Who Lived once, in an old newspaper clipping her father had kept. If it hadn't been for the article and the photo, Darcie never would have realized it was him. Save the well-known truth, Harry Potter appeared, at first glance, just a normal eleven-year-old boy. Untidy black hair half in his eyes and sticking out all over, knobby knees, thin face, green eyes and plain round spectacles perched on his nose.

In any other instant, Darcie Malfoy would have simply passed the boy by—seeing that she was merely eleven years of age, and not even marginally interested in the opposite gender. But this, she realized, was not just any normal instant on any normal first day of term.

"Is it true?" she enquired, stepping into the small room as Virginia and Greta struggled to squeeze in behind her. "They're saying all down the train that Harry Potter's in this compartment. So it's you, is it?"

Harry Potter's gaze flickered back and forth between Darcie's face and her friends'. His eyes were open, curious, if not a little guarded. "Yes," he said.

Darcie smiled, knowing she was doing nothing that her father would disapprove of—if not the exact opposite—and bolstered by the confidence and hope this gave her, she put her hand on her hip. "I'm Darcie Malfoy, and this is Virginia Crabbe and Greta Goyle." She waved her free hand flippantly at her bumbling friends, who were openly ogling Harry now. She rolled her eyes, peeved with their obnoxious ways, hoping their reactions wouldn't affect the way Harry might perceive her.

There was the sound of a throat clearing, a poor disguise to hide a snicker, and Darcie realized, suddenly, that they weren't alone. Sitting opposite Harry Potter was a freckle-faced boy with a long nose and bright red hair.

"Think my name's funny, do you?" she snapped at him, humiliated by his audacity. Obviously a Weasley, and therefore a blood traitor, the boy had no right! "No need to ask who you are. My father told me all the Weasleys have red hair, freckles, and more children than they can afford."

Behind her, Virginia and Greta snickered. The Weasley boy's expression darkened.

Darcie turned her gaze back on Harry's. "You'll soon find out some wizarding families are much better than others, Harry Potter. You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there."

She extended her hand, waiting for the moment when he would take it, and agree to spend the remainder of the train-ride in her compartment. From then on out, it would be simple.

But he didn't take her hand. In fact, his eyes cooled considerably at that moment, and Darcie's stomach dropped.

"I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks."

Darcie felt the heat in her cheeks and knew she was blushing. Now, Virginia and Greta had fallen silent. So he'd formed his alliances, then. And they weren't with her. Which could only mean…

And so Darcie realized that her father's hopes had been nothing but wild daydreaming. Harry Potter wasn't destined to be a great dark wizard, and if he was already on the path to blood-treason, then their friendship could go no further than here.

She gathered her wits about her, and lifted her chin a fraction of an inch. "I'd be careful if I were you, Potter," she told him, measuring her words carefully, struggling to hide the sting his rejection had elicited in her. "Unless you're a bit politer, you'll go the same way as your parents. They didn't know what was good for them, either. You hang around with riff-raff like the Weasleys, and it'll rub off on you."

Darcie found herself surprised when both boys leapt to their feet. Anger flashed in each of their eyes, and she smirked, a burst of empowerment showering over her. It had only taken a few mere words to get a reaction like this out of them. She contemplated that, the power her words held over these two boys.

"Say that again," the Weasley boy snarled at her, face flushed.

Darcie feigned innocence. "Would you really hit a girl, Weasley?"

"I don't care if you _are_ a girl," he snapped.

"I think you should leave," Harry said.

But Darcie, unexpectedly, had discovered some modicum of fascination in hitting these boys' nerves, in having them so worked up.

"But we don't feel like leaving, do we, girls?" she said coyly, sliding into the seat Harry had been occupying, and gesturing for her friends to sit as well. "In fact, we're rather enjoying ourselves—oh, look, Greta. It looks like they've saved some Chocolate Frogs for you." Darcie jerked her chin toward the mountainous pile of sweets the boys had procured, commanding her friend to take one.

Greta reached for the pile, but before she'd even touched one of the sweets, she let out a shrill scream. Darcie leapt out of her seat when she saw the dingy rat swinging from Greta's fat finger, dirty, patchy, and with gruesome yellow teeth. If there was one thing Darcie Malfoy feared in this world, it was rats.

She pushed Virginia out of her way, scrambling toward the door. Those sharp little claws, those long, jaundiced teeth… She felt as if her skin were crawling, and suddenly, more than status, more than the potential of winning Harry Potter's friendship, was the necessity of escaping that _rat_.

Darcie fled down the corridor, hoping Greta had shaken the thing and wasn't following her with it still attached to her finger. Breathing heavily, she reached her compartment and collapsed into her seat, pulling her feet up off the floor in case the rat decided to follow.

For a long while, the only sound was of the girls each struggling to catch their breath.

Finally, Virginia said, "Well—that didn't go as well as I was expecting."

Darcie glared daggers at her. "Shut up."


	3. Chapter 2: Solaces

**A/N:** I've made the decision to gender-swap Neville as well. I had a good think about it and decided that Darcie would be more likely to target Neville if he was a girl. From my memory, girl bullies are more likely to target girl victims, and though Darcie certainly loves to pick on Ron and Harry, she'd have a particularly pleasurable time picking on Nelly Longbottom, as she's noticed it upsets Harry and Ron.

.

 **Chapter 2:** Solaces

.

 _Fall 1991_

.

The first week at Hogwarts didn't pass exactly how Darcie had assumed it would. She had assumed, being a Malfoy, she would have garnered more attention by now—friendship offers from girls wanting to be a part of her circle, etc. But rather than find herself in any sort of spotlight whatsoever, Darcie was shocked and disgusted to find that she'd been pushed aside into the shadows by none other than the famous Harry Potter.

So maybe that's why she found it so hilariously entertaining when, in their first Potions lesson of the year, Head of Slytherin house and Potions Master Professor Snape, took an immediately dislike to the boy as well. She would have favored the teacher anyway, as he was a close friend of her father's outside of school.

Initially, Darcie's stomach had dropped when Snape paused at Harry's name while taking attendance. And then his face had taken on a funny little sort of smirk.

"Ah, yes." His voice was low and drawling, and more than a shade or two sarcastic. "Harry Potter. Our new— _celebrity_."

Darcie and her friends giggled loudly, unashamedly. She had the sudden thought that maybe, after all, not all of the teachers at Hogwarts were groundless. So far, nearly all of them had had the same, pathetic reaction to Harry Potter's presence as all of the students. And maybe, she thought, it would have been different if Harry had taken her hand that first day on the train. But he hadn't. And if Darcie wanted to uphold her reputation, if she wanted to please her parents, it was obvious she had to declare him an enemy. _Especially_ , she added, eyes on the long-nosed, ginger-haired boy next to him, if he was choosing to spend his time with blood traitors.

Professor Snape was talking again, his voice low and even and, though monotone, sort of hypnotic. Darcie hung on his every word, deciding she'd found her favorite teacher—Head of House, no less.

"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making. As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses… I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death—if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."

Darcie and her friends exchanged impressed, enthusiastic looks. Brew glory? Stopper death? Darcie could hardly hold any other class in higher esteem. This seemed to be more useful a class to her than many of the others. History of Magic, especially, occurred to Darcie as such foolish meaningless. She already knew much of the magical world's history, anyway. Her parents had made sure of that. But this, _this_ , seemed a very intriguing class.

"Potter!" Snape called, "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

To Darcie's extreme delight, Harry Potter appeared absolutely stumped. His face was abruptly flushed as he turned to his friend, an expression of pure confusion on his face.

Darcie bit her tongue to hide her laughter.

"I don't know, sir," the boy said quietly.

Professor Snape's top lip curled back, an expression of pure hatred coming over his visage. "Tut, tut—fame clearly isn't everything."

Yes, it was confirmed. Severus Snape was _definitely_ Darcie's favorite teacher.

After he'd finished thoroughly humiliating Harry Potter, including docking a point from his house, he put the class in pairs and assigned a simple potion to cure boils.

Darcie and Virginia quickly and eagerly got to work.

She sent Virginia to gather what they would need from the storage cupboard, which was teeming with bumbling students, while she flipped to the recipe in her brand new Potions book. She read the words over cursorily as she waited for Virginia to return.

 _Being an effective remedie against pustules, hives, boils and many other scrofulous conditions, this is a robust potion of powerful character. Care should be taken when brewing. Prepared incorrectly this potion has been known to cause boils, rather than cure them._

Virginia had returned then with her arms full of ingredients, spilling them across the table. Darcie glared at her and attempted to organize them some, and the two immediately got to work.

Darcie, eager to please Snape, pushed aside much of Virginia's attempts to help, choosing to carry out the steps herself.

She added six snake fangs to her brand new mortar as the instructions said, and proceeded to crush them into fine a powder as she could manage. When that was achieved, she added four measures of the powder to her cauldron, sliced her Pungous Onions, added them and heated the mixture according to the instructions.

It was clear that Virginia was becoming frustrated as Darcie proceeded to add the dried nettles and Flobberworm mucus. As she stirred these ingredients in vigorously, her friend huffed, clearly annoyed.

"Can't I do _something_?" she muttered.

"Yes," Darcie said primly, "You can go and get me the powdered ginger root you forgot."

Virginia's cheeks went pink, but she smartly didn't say anything, instead turning and crossing the cold stone floor of the Dungeon classroom toward the store cupboard.

As she and Virginia moved through the next steps of the potion, Darcie watched Professor Snape sweep between the rows of tables, checking on the students' work. He was clearly very displeased with the Gryffindors' work, which pleased her and stirred her on to work even harder on her own potion. Many of the Slytherins' work, too, he criticized.

As the professor approached her table, she carefully added a glug of stewed horned slugs, aware that he was watching her. Professor Snape paused behind the girls and peered into Darcie's cauldron. Darcie watched his face carefully for any sign of disapproval or criticism, but to her pleasure, Snape seemed rather pleased by the state of her potion.

"Nice work, Miss. Malfoy, Miss. Crabbe. Your execution of the stewed horn slugs is utterly perfect." He had raised his voice enough so that the whole classroom could hear, and Darcie felt the pride and pleasure fill her chest with warmth. She was grinning, just shifting her gaze across the room to check Harry Potter's reaction to these words when there was a loud hissing noise, and a pungent billow of green smoke quickly spread over the tables.

There were shouts of terror as a pudgy Gryffindor girl's potion spilled over the edge of her table, melting holes in peoples' shoes.

Darcie, who had taken safety on the perch of her stool, laughed shrilly as angry red boils sprouted all over the girl's marshmallowy arms and legs. Such _stupidity!_

Her pleasure only increased when Professor Snape seemed to share her observation. "Idiot girl! I suppose you added the porcupine quills before taking the cauldron off the fire?"

The girl didn't reply, only moaning lamely as her nose was overcome with more angry red spots.

Darcie struggled to hide her pleased expression as she took her cauldron off its heat source before adding her porcupine quills. Snape was instructing one of the Gryffindor boys to take the spotty girl to the hospital wing.

She was just completing her potion, a lovely pink color, when she was distracted by the professor's sudden address of Harry Potter, once more. She glanced up eagerly.

"You—Potter—why didn't you tell her not to add the quills? Thought she'd make you look good if she got it wrong, did you? That's another point you've lost for Gryffindor."

Darcie grinned cheekily. Yes, this very much might be her favorite class.

.

Darcie had assumed that, as well as succeeding wonderfully in Potions class, that she would have a head start on all the other first years in Flying Class as well. Flying on her father's broom had been one of her favorite past times of the summer, and she doubted many of the other first years had taken lessons from a had-been Quidditch captain. She made sure to boast of this loudly at mealtimes and in the corridors between classes.

A notice pinned up in the Slytherin common room informed her flying lessons would begin on Thursday, and Slytherin and Gryffindor would be learning together. This, somehow, added to her excitement for the upcoming lesson. She'd get another opportunity to show Harry up in wizarding skills, and perhaps another opportunity to see Nelly Longbottom—the girl who had failed so miserably at her Cure for Boils potion—disappoint once again—at flying, no less.

Darcie, once she'd learned the pudgy girl's name, had taken a particular inclination to tormenting the girl. She knew the Longbottoms, Nelly's parents, had been part of the original fight against the Dark Lord, and that they'd been especially brutalized in their stupid divergence, confined for the foreseeable future to St. Mungo's. If Nelly was as stupid as her parents had been, well, she deserved to be punished, Darcie rationalized. It was common knowledge, at least to the ones who knew of this past occurrence, that Nelly Longbottom possessed no magical talent whatsoever. A Squib, Darcie had heard her father say, was almost as bad as a Mudblood.

So when she saw the Longbottom girl opening a small package on Thursday morning, Darcie couldn't resist heading over to see what it was, eager for the opportunity to tease the girl some more.

"It's a Remembrall!" she heard Nelly explain to Harry, who was sitting close by. "Gran knows I forget things—this tells you if there's something you've forgotten to do. Look, you hold it tight like this and if it turns red—oh…" Her fat face fell as the Remembrall glowed bright red. Darcie snickered maliciously, ducking around a couple of students lingering in between the tables.

"… You've forgotten something…" Nelly finished sadly.

It was very easy for Darcie, who was just passing with her friends now, to reach over and tug the glass ball out of Nelly Longbottom's hand.

The girl swung around, an expression of utter confusion on her face, which made Darcie and her friends laugh harder.

"Forget that you've got absolutely no talent, Squib?" Darcie sneered, turning the Remembrall over between her fingers as it faded once more to a misty grey vapor. "You must have, seeing as you're still here. Haven't run home to your Gran, yet?"

Virginia and Greta, behind her, giggled shrilly.

Harry and Ron Weasley rose to their feet then, expressions of pure hatred on their faces. Darcie regarded them coolly, daring them to do something.

But just then, ruining the excitement, Professor McGonagall, head of Gryffindor house, appeared at Harry Potter's shoulder.

"What's going on?" she demanded sharply.

Nelly Longbottom immediately tattled: "Darcie's got my Remembrall, Professor."

Sneering distastefully, Darcie dropped the ball back on the table, half-hoping it would shatter.

"Just looking," she lied, assuming a prim and innocent expression, and then turned and walked away, Virginia and Greta on her heels.

.

More eager than ever to impress her friends as well as her parents, Darcie arrived early to her flying lessons.

Already there were twenty school brooms lying in perfect rows in the swaying green grass.

It was still warm for mid-September, the sky mostly clear with a few fluffy clouds floating by every once in awhile.

Darcie regarded the brooms with no small amount of disgust. _This_ was what they regarded as _safe_ for flying lessons? Every one of the brooms were aged, their shafts crooked, their seats faded, cheap oak twigs sticking out willy-nilly.

Darcie marched up and down the rows, searching for the most acceptable-looking broom. She found a halfway-decent looking one about midway up the second row and stood by it to claim it.

It wasn't long before the Gryffindors approached. Darcie watched Nelly Longbottom approach, her expression unsure and nervous, the Remembrall clutched in her sausage-shaped fingers. But before she could get a teasing quip out, Madam Hooch arrived.

She was a no-nonsense professor with short, spiked grey hair and unusually bright yellow eyes. She immediately instructed them to step up alongside a broom, and to summon them.

"Stick out your right hand over your broom, and say, 'Up!'"

"Up!" Darcie stated confidently and coolly. Immediately, the broom jerked upwards through the air and into her waiting palm. She curled her fingers around the rough wooden shaft, pleased with herself. A couple of the Slytherins glanced at her, surprised.

Darcie glanced sideways down the row, and found that Harry Potter, as well as two or three other students, had been successful in summoning their brooms on their first try.

Darcie felt her brows knit in frustration. This just didn't add up. Having been raised in the wizarding world, shouldn't Harry Potter be as clueless about flying as a Mudblood?

A spike of hatred went through her. This wasn't fair! _She_ was supposed to be the one good at this! Not him, a boy who'd likely never been on a broom in his life!

She distracted herself by watching Nelly Longbottom, who's quivering voice and shaking hand only gave too well the impression that she did not wish to partake in this lesson. She was the last to successfully summon her broom.

Madam Hooch then instructed the class on how to mount their brooms.

Darcie, having learned all this already and excited to show the professor, as well as the other students, that she needed no guidance, mounted her broom before Madam Hooch was through with her instructions. Then the professor walked up and down the rows, giving corrections and tips to some of the students as she went. Darcie stood stall and proud, energy thrumming through her legs, just barely curtailing the urge to push off the cushiony ground beneath her, when Madam Hooch approached her.

"Miss. Malfoy, right hand over left." Her voice was sharp and no-nonsense, and Darcie felt her face go pink and hot with humiliation and indignation.

"But—professor—my father taught me how—"

"Well, he, and as a result, you, have been doing it wrong for years, dear," Madam Hooch insisted without a touch of sympathy. She didn't glance back as she moved on, and as the teacher moved out of Darcie's field of vision, she caught sight of Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley just barely containing their humor.

Her face flushed hotter as she adjusted her grip.

"Now, when I blow my whistle, you kick off from the ground, hard," Madam Hooch called when she'd finished correcting the rest of the students. "Keep your brooms steady, rise a few feet and then come straight back down by leaning forwards slightly. On my whistle—three—two—"

Darcie watched as Nelly, all jelly-legged and jumpy, pushed off way harder than necessary, before the whistle had reached Madam Hooch's pursed, lined lips.

Darcie watched in amused disbelief as Nelly Longbottom rose with astonishing speed into the air, disregarding Madam Hooch's commands completely.

Darcie saw the girl's wide, pale face and her huge blue eyes, and then, with comedic disarray, slipped sideways off the broom and plummeted the twenty feet she'd risen, back to the ground.

There was a loud thud as the girl hit the ground, and for a second, Darcie's humor wavered when the girl—crumpled and unmoving—remained in the grass.

The professor hurried over to her, bending over her and murmuring quietly. She urged the girl to her feet, and then turned to the rest of the watching class.

"None of you is to move while I take this girl to the hospital wing! You leave those brooms where they are or you'll be out of Hogwarts before you can say "Quidditch". Come on, dear."

Nelly Longbottom and Madam Hooch hobbled off toward the castle, and Darcie remembered herself.

"Did you see her face, the great lump?"

The other Slytherins quickly joined in on her laughter, catching on.

"Shut it, Malfoy," snapped a caramel-skinned, black-haired girl from Gryffindor.

"Oh," Darcie said, lifting her eyebrows in mock astonishment, "Sticking up for Longbottom? Never thought _you'd_ like fat little cry babies, Parvati."

Her face burned crimson underneath her dark complexion, and Darcie grinned tauntingly at her. Then she spied the Remembrall lying in the grass where Nelly had fallen.

"Look!" she cried, darting forward to snatch it up, "It's that stupid thing Longbottom's gran sent her!"

As she lifted it, letting it's globular surface catch the sun, she heard a quiet voice say, "Give that here, Malfoy."

She turned, glancing at Harry over her shoulder as she smiled. Everyone had stopped talking, and were watching the two silently.

That same sense of empowerment she'd felt on the train rose again inside her.

"I think I'll leave it somewhere for Longbottom to collect—how about…" She pretended to think, "Up a tree?"

Harry Potter's shout of outrage followed her, but she'd already leapt onto her broom, showing off as she rose, one-handed, high into the air. The familiar flood of exhilaration blew through her as the wind fluttered her robes, blowing her long blonde hair back off her shoulders.

"You want it, Potter?" she teased, high with the fierce, unmatched ecstasy of flying, "You'll have to come and catch me!"

She watched from the air, pleased, as Harry grabbed his broom, an expression of pure determination on his face.

Fluffy-haired, buck-toothed Hermione Granger stepped forward. " _No_!" Darcie heard her shout desperately. "Madam Hooch told us not to move—you'll get us all into trouble."

"What am I?" Darcie called to the girl teasingly, "Chopped dragon liver?"

But Harry Potter didn't seem to hear either girls' words. He threw one leg over his broom, kicked hard off the ground, and lifted smoothly into the air. For a minute, Darcie found herself shocked as he pulled evenly, smoothly, level with her above the treetops, and then, as if without any effort at all, tugged his broomstick sharply so that he was facing her head-on. Even she could not deny the inexplicable, intrinsic talent the Potter boy possessed on a broom.

"Give it here," he demanded of her, "or I'll knock you off that broom!"

For the first time, she believed his threats. "Oh yeah?" she goaded him, trying to regain that visage of fearlessness, but hearing her voice quaver nonetheless. Her heart was pounding in her chest as he leaned forward and flew toward her, like an arrow shot from a bow.

She gasped, and only just dodged his advance in time, wobbling slightly on her broom. Vaguely, below, she heard cheers and applause.

"Just you and me, Malfoy," Harry called to her as he turned again to face her. His face was hard, his eyes, a deep, emerald green, were blazing.

She knew, in that moment, despite all her effort and stubbornness, that Harry Potter was right. It was only her, against him. The determination on his face and the fire in his eyes intimidated her, scared her senseless, and in that instant, self-preservation took over.

"Catch it if you can, then!" she called, and then threw the Remembrall as hard and as high as she could. As Harry's head turned away from her, following the trajectory of the little ball, she turned and rushed back toward the safety of the school grounds.

She dismounted her broom smoothly, effortlessly, but no one was watching her. Instead, all eyes were turned skyward, watching as Harry Potter pushed his broom into a dive, chasing after the ball.

 _Well, here goes,_ Darcie thought as she watched him descend through the air, unstoppable, faster than a falling javelin, _He'll kill himself now._

Screams reverberated around her, and for an instant real and true terror wrenched her insides. And then, his left hand extended toward the falling Remembrall, his right pulled hard on the broom, and he rolled gracefully and undeniably full of talent, into the grass.

"HARRY POTTER!" The shrill voice of Professor McGonagall echoed across the courtyard, and Darcie grinned. Ah, true justice… " _Never_ —in all my time at Hogwarts—how _dare_ you—might have broken your neck—!"

The professor was almost speechless with shock, and Darcie felt her lips stretch into a wide grin as she watched Harry Potter tremble and shake under her wrath.

Some of the students from Gryffindor tried to come to his rescue, but Darcie was pleased when Professor McGonagall's mind could not be swayed.

"Potter, follow me, now."

Harry followed the professor back towards the castle, only glancing over his shoulder once. Darcie saw that all the fire in his eyes had gone out, replaced by true fear, and she felt a rush of pleasure.

 _She'd_ done that to him; _she'd_ made him feel that way!

Professor McGonagall and Harry Potter disappeared into the castle, and Darcie willingly accepted the rounds of congratulations the Slytherins were showering upon her, made all the sweeter by the icy glares the Gryffindors were giving her.

Maybe _now_ they'd recognize her as truly deserving of their attention.


End file.
